


Sixteen Hours

by Spatz



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Electricity, Gen, Pre-Canon, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatz/pseuds/Spatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All they wanted was his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen Hours

**Author's Note:**

> While this is technically a prequel to [the old lie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/973313), it can also stand alone.

John screams, and screams, and screams, until the electricity finally ebbs again. He slumps against the restraints, his muscles trembling and cramping even after the shock is gone. They've been at this for a long time, and he's had no water except the accidental mouthful he got when they dumped a bucket over him. He's not sure he could speak now even if he wanted.

" _Staa num tsa dhe?_ " his interrogator demands, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back sharply. "Your name, _sodar_!"

He focuses on breathing, slow and careful with the blood in his mouth and his probably-broken ribs. The man makes an irritated sound and shoves his head forward, returning to the controls. John braces himself, but it's never enough, it's never--

The current is like being ripped apart from the inside, and he jerks and arches against the restraints as his muscles spasm, pain whiting out his training and his hatred and everything else.

His name is--

His name is--

The agony fades, and he cannot even hold his head up anymore. He pants into his chest, shallow breaths that hurt, and can't help the tears that drip down his face. The other man laughs, and he can't remember why he was fighting anymore: he's the only one left, no one's coming to find him, who cares if he tells them his--

His wrists have been tied so tightly that he doesn't recognize the sensation at first, until the pain of circulation returning to numb fingers jars him out of his thoughts.

The ropes have come loose. 

Head still hanging limply, he feels a grin pull at his face, broken and dangerous. Careful with his half-numb and blood-slick fingers, he twists his hands free, gathers the loose strand into a garrotte, and waits for the man to come closer.

His name doesn't matter. This is what he is.


End file.
